To Hell And Back
by hat-and-goggles
Summary: After standing up to Satan himself in the Apocalypse That Wasn't, Crowley was made mortal while Hell bought itself some time to come up with an extra special punishment. However, as Aziraphale reminds him, mortals are eligible for redemption. And so, the race to redeem Anthony J Crowley begins.
1. Chapter 1

It had been a week after the Apocalypse-that-wasn't when Crowley and Aziraphale heard back from their respective superiors. To say the aftermath of the botched Armageddon had been a wild ride would have been the understatement of the century so far. But with ten more years of said century to go, anything could happen.

Aziraphale's superiors had been quite pleased with his bravery, and had given him a commendation for standing up to Satan himself with only his sword in his hands and a demon who forgot his loyalties* to fight by his side.

(*This, Aziraphale knew to be untrue, as the angel was well aware that Crowley was only loyal to himself and his friends.**)

(**Which was a convenient shorthand for, and a less desperate sounding alternative to "Aziraphale".)

Crowley's superiors on the other hand… not so much. Not that he was surprised. No, he fully expected them to not appreciate his little revolt. He was, however, surprised he wasn't just discorporated on the spot by a stray bolt of lightning, or simply wiped out of all existence.

Instead, he was demoted. Not even a little bit demoted. No, demoted all the way. Damned to live out the rest of his days as a mortal, human man, stripped of all his demonic powers and attributes, while Hell bought itself some time to cook up an extra special punishment for him when his time did come.

Aziraphale, however, was more optimistic about Crowley's predicament than the man himself.

"Come now, dear. It's not so bad..." Aziraphale said in a tone Crowley knew was meant to comfort him. It didn't.

The angel placed a warm hand on his own and looked a little deeper into Crowley's eyes than he remembered him ever looking in them when they still had their serpentine look to them. They were a rich, chocolate brown now, and every morning Crowley spent an embarrassing amount of time staring in them through the mirror, telling himself that they took some getting used to.

Maybe it was just the lack of his sunglasses, which he had accidentally left in his flat for the first time ever. The world seemed just that little brighter and more intense without them, but the now mortal demon could not afford to bask in the glory of it. In fact, he couldn't afford much of anything at all.

"What do you mean, 'it's not so bad'?! I can't instantaneously sober up anymore, I can't drive, speaking of which, I have to push the Bentley to the nearest petrol station to get it to run _at all_, I can't cook and I can't eat at any of my usual places without seriously breaking the bank, and then there's my flat! My ridiculously expensive flat! And my plants! I have to get a job now, Aziraphale! And did I not tell you every single possibility of what might happen to me if- _when_ I die?!"

"Only in excruciating detail."

"Then why aren't you concerned?!"

"A job just opened up at the boutique next door. Vintage fashion. All unique items salvaged from garage sales and the like, sold for an immense profit. It seemed right up your alley to me, so I told them you'd like to drop by for an interview tomorrow at 2 o'clock." The angel beamed, obviously very satisfied with himself.

"But-" Crowley attempted to self sabotage.

"No diplomas or previous retail experience required. They only want to know if you're stylish and snarky enough for them and I think you've got that covered. You're welcome. As for Hell… You're a human now, Crowley. That means you're eligible for redemption. Just be good, maybe do some charity work and you might not have to fear what your former colleagues have in store for you."

"Thanks, angel." Crowley smiled, full of hope for the first time since this whole ordeal started.

"Always happy to help."

* * *

The following day at 2 o'clock, Crowley went to his job interview. He was hired on the spot on the merit of his amicably judgmental nature and his sense of style. Incidentally, he had also found out where Aziraphale had acquired a substantial part of his collection of tacky bow ties. He made a mental note of it to hide the rack every time the angel entered the shop. Enough is enough.

* * *

Unsurprisingly, Crowley began to like his new job. The people who came to the boutique to shop were _his_ people after all. Young, trendy, ambitious. The kind of people he spent the last six millennia nudging and probing, slowly winning souls for his master. It almost made him feel nostalgic. Almost.

Because he could now unashamedly spend time with Aziraphale. It was only a short trip to the apartment over the bookshop next door, where the two more often than not had lunch together, and spent many an evening learning to cook for themselves. Crowley out of necessity, Aziraphale mostly to humour Crowley.

Aziraphale loved having the other around more often. Sure, he was used to not have Crowley around at all times, but he knew, now that Crowley was made mortal, they didn't have much time left. 80 years, if they were so lucky, was only the blink of an eye compared to the 6,000 years they had been friends. That's why he planned to make the most of it.

Once Crowley had reached a level of financial stability both the angel and the fledgling human were satisfied with, Aziraphale decided it was time for Crowley to start doing some volunteer work. After all, if he managed to get the man into Heaven, he could at least visit him after _it_ happened.

* * *

Spending time with the elderly at a nearby nursing home, playing board games, going for walks and the like, had been a raving success, but the director*** didn't appreciate how taken the old ladies were with Crowley's charms and swiftly sent the two away. And where Crowley's snarky sense of humour was applauded at the boutique, it wasn't as welcome at the food bank.

(*** Who strongly suspected that the two had only come to swindle the dementing women out of their pensions...)

Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a much needed sigh.

"There has to be something you're good at that you like doing and will also redeem you." The angel mumbled as he paced back and forth on the hardwood floor of his bookshop, quickly swiping a bottle of wine from Crowley's hands before he could get wasted.

Crowley only groaned.

"Can't I just go to church and confess and clear my name like that?" He suggested.

"Technically yes, but no. You and the priest will be long dead before you make it through the fourteenth century."

"For fuck's sake, that wasn't on me!"

"Dear, please..." Aziraphale urged, shooting the man a sharp glare.

"I like my plants..." Crowley mumbled meekly. All this talk of dying and going to heaven had him more on-edge than ever before, and the last thing he wanted was to snap at his best and only friend. "I'm pretty good with those… And animals. I like animals. Like that poor dove you smothered in your sleeve, at Warlock's birthday party?"

"I remember." The angel said, a fond, hopeful smile creeping to his features as he remembered the demon breathing new life into the squished bird. "How about an animal shelter?"

* * *

The animals at the shelter took surprisingly well to Crowley. The dogs liked his company, and the cats seemed to not hate him. The reptiles and amphibians seemed satisfied, yet ultimately indifferent, while the rabbits and other small mammals cowered in the corners of their respective enclosures the second he walked in the door.****

(**** This was no surprise to Crowley and Aziraphale. Sure, Hell had taken away his snake-like attributes, but old habits die hard.)

The other volunteers liked him decidedly better than the rodents did; after all, he did the chores he was given and did them well. When he manned the front desk, he talked to the visitors and answered phone calls in the same saccharine tone he did to his old superiors, he shovelled poop like nobody's business and, without having been asked, Crowley reorganized and digitized all of the records in such a way that anyone could find anything at any time.

One volunteer had asked out of curiosity where the man had acquired his administrative skills, but laughed it off when Crowley simply answered "Hell".

* * *

But, as with most people who lived fast, Crowley also died young. He had been in a heated argument over the phone with a frequent customer of the boutique as he was crossing Oxford Street, overlooking a speed demon in a Corvette that was doing 60 miles per hour. It was nowhere near his own record, but nevertheless, more than his human internal organs could handle in a frontal collision.

And Aziraphale… Aziraphale was devastated.

He wasn't devastated quite yet when he stumbled upon an enormous crowd effectively blocking the sidewalks of Oxford street. He was trying to get back to his bookshop for Crowley's lunch break, holding a grocery bag in each hand.

"Excuse me, may I pass, please? Some of us have somewhere to be." Aziraphale said as he wormed his way through the crowd. However, when he finally popped out the other end, nearly spraining his ankle as he slipped on the edge of the sidewalk, he realized that this was exactly where he was meant to be.

"Crowley!" He cried before he dropped his groceries and dashed over to his motionless friend, sprawled on the street like a limp ragdoll whose master was done playing with him. Eggs cracked in their cartons and a lone apple rolled across the street. "No, no, no, no..." The angel chanted to himself as he ran, a painful burn spreading through his leg. He didn't care. What mattered now, was Crowley.

Aziraphale kneeled beside him, carefully taking hold of the man's upper body and cradled him to his chest as he ignored the police officers' protests and the blur of his watering eyes. He had to focus. He squeezed his eyes shut and clung to Crowley's body, trying to conjure up a miracle. Though, however vast the power of an angel may be, there were certain boundaries to what they could do with their magic, and raising the dead was far beyond that boundary. So when Crowley's heart didn't start beating again within thirty seconds, that could only mean one thing.

A cry escaped Aziraphale that the angel hadn't thought his corporeal form capable of. It was earth shattering, almost animal and brimming with grief. This entire month he had focused so much on making sure his friend would be okay after his moment came, that he completely ignored his own feelings on the matter.

"No, you can't do this to me, you can't-" The angel cried, finally allowing the tears to spill from his eyes. "Please, don't leave me, my dear..."

Aziraphale gasped when a heavy handed fell onto his shoulder. Through his tears, he looked up at the police officer the hand belonged to. A friendly looking, mustachioed, older gentleman.

"I'm sorry for your loss, sir." The police officer said in a vaguely northern accent.

Aziraphale nodded and looked down, mumbling a small "Thank you". His sad look quickly became a furious glare, however, when he noticed the hands of a coroner prying at his own. He tried to regain the hold on Crowley, but the policeman caught Aziraphale's wrists before he had the chance. "Bring him- Give him back! Don't take him away from me! I didn't… I didn't tell him I love him..."

"I'm sorry, but we have to clear the road." The police officer said as he stood up and helped Aziraphale to his feet as well. "That coroner there will take your friend to the morgue, and I will take you there as well for all the closure you might need, but first I need you to come down to the station with me to answer some questions."

Aziraphale nodded. He knew that a few weeks of volunteer work would never make up for six millennia of 'getting up there and making some trouble', so the angel did all he could; he prayed.


	2. Chapter 2

Crowley squinted as he looked up at the towering, cloaked skeleton, standing in front of him in the middle of Oxford street. He slowly lowered his cell phone, not hearing the beeping that told him the signal was lost.

"What are you doing here?" He asked. "What happened? Why can I see you?"

A bony arm extended a bony hand, which extended a bony finger.

Crowley slowly turned around to follow the motion, terrified of what he may find. A hushed, trembling "No" escaped him.

YES.

"No… No! It can't be! I just started to get the hang of this! It's not fair! I haven't gotten the chance to learn to drive, I haven't gotten the chance to redeem myself, I haven't gotten the chance to-"

Crowley froze in place when he saw Aziraphale break through the crowd that gathered around the scene of the accident. He could only watch as his angel kneeled down by his contorted, bleeding form and cradled Crowley's uninhabited body close to his chest. The cry the angel let out would have sent a shiver down his spine, had he still had one.

I KNOW IT IS UNFAIR, BUT SOMETIMES IT'S JUST LIKE THAT.

Death placed a sympathetic hand on Crowley's shoulder. It was just what he needed as the world and everything he had ever loved faded away.

"I'm sorry, Aziraphale..."

* * *

When he arrived in Hell, Crowley had been too heartbroken to fully realize the trouble he found himself in.

"Back so soon?"

Oh no. Not them. Not now.

"Not so tough now, are you? Just a soft, squishy, human soul for us to torture."

"Though it would have been nice if you'd given us some actual time to come up with a punishment more suited to your treason."

A dark chuckle escaped Crowley as he slowly regained his composure.

"Hastur, Ligur," he greeted bitterly, "I see the antichrist has been too generous to you. Hi, Dagon."

"Hi."

For a short moment, there was nothing. No one spoke, no one breathed, and in that moment, Crowley was sure no one thought, either.

"So, since you have no punishment suitable for my treachery, surely you're here to see me off back to the surface, correct? Let me live out the rest of my days? Volunteer at the animal shelter some more?" Crowley said, still trying to charm his way out of eternity with these tools.

"Make out with your 'angel'?" Hastur mocked. "Don't think we didn't know about that. It was obvious to everyone except for you."

Ouch. That one cut deep.

"No, we're keeping you down here." Ligur continued. "Seeing as you're already well-versed in Hell's bureaucracy, we figured it might be fun for you to catch up on our paperwork."

"The entire twentieth century." Hastur gestured enthusiastically. Crowley had never seen this demon so excited about… well, anything, really. "By the time you're through processing all those souls, I'm sure you'll be begging for whatever we've come up with."

The worst part of it was, Crowley was sure of that too.

* * *

Despite having a hand in designing post-1950s office spaces, Crowley had never been a fan of them himself. (Secretly,) It was a greater achievement than the M25 London orbital motorway, but he hated them with a fiery passion. They reminded him too much of "home".

There, he sat at a single desk in a dark cubicle with red lighting that made the walls feel like they were closing in on him, typing away at a near-prehistoric typewriter as he processed all 'new arrivals' since 1898. It was almost as if his old colleagues, with some measure of foresight, started slacking off on their paperwork in the event that something like this might happen. It was clever, having this kind of back-up punishment lying around. And it's not like Hastur or Ligur ever gave a care about all of the souls being held hostage in Limbo until some poor sod* would be tasked with getting all of this done.

(*Read: Crowley)

A groan escaped Crowley at what felt like the millionth case. What time was it? How long had he been here? His jacket had been long abandoned on his chair, and even though he hadn't seen a mirror since he set foot back in Hell, he knew he looked like a mess. He felt it. His usually perfectly exfoliated skin felt grimy, his hair felt more greasy and unkempt every time he ran his hands through it and he felt an uneven stubble growing from his chin. Something he'd long since forgotten wasn't exclusive to his corporeal form. He stretched his arms over his head, his back and shoulders popped. Crowley was about to ram his face into the keys of the typewriter when he was interrupted by a deep, buldering voice.

"Anthony James Crowley."

Crowley's gaze snapped up. In front of his desk stood the last person he expected. The Metatron. Arms crossed, perpetual look of disapproval plastered on their features.

The ex-demon stuttered. "I-I, uh, how- How can I help you?" He asked, feeling himself sit up straighter.

"We hate to admit this, but we require your assistance."

"What?" He asked. "You're the voice of God for crying out loud! What could you possibly need my help for?"

"We will explain on the way." The Metatron said and snapped their fingers, leaving only a spinning office chair behind.

* * *

It had been a year since Crowley's untimely death, and Aziraphale still wasn't taking it well.

Not long after it happened, the angel worked up the nerve to call back a few potential customers to tell them that one book they were looking for had just gone up for sale. With the money he raised, he managed to throw his friend a modest funeral to which he was the only guest. No one from the boutique or the animal shelter seemed to be able to make it. It wouldn't do much good for Crowley, he knew, but it allowed him some closure. And after six millennia, God knew he needed that.

After that, life was mostly just… boring. He had no one to talk with, to drink with, no one to cook or to sing or to dance with, and without a demon around in close proximity, there wasn't a whole lot of evil to thwart. And so, most of Aziraphale's life after Crowley was spent drinking alone, lying in bed to wallow in self pity and praying every minute of every hour of every day that someone, somewhere would be merciful to his precious Crowley.

Until that day, a year after the accident, someone was knocking on his front door. Aziraphale hadn't wanted to get up, and therefore didn't, despite the persistent knocking. Knocking turned into banging and after a while, it was quiet. But then the angel heard the deadbolt turn.

This alarmed him enough to get up from his bed, rub the tears from his eyes and crept down the stairs, flaming sword in hand. Aziraphale distinctly remembered placing a charm on the deadbolt. Whoever this was, they weren't human.

Books shuffled from and to the shelves of the shop as if someone were inspecting them and the angel felt the hands tighten around the handle of his sword. As he slinked along the bookcases, he spotted a figure in front of the bookcase by the till. They wore a light grey suit and hummed merrily as they plucked books from the shelves, examining their covers for a brief moment before putting them back. Out of chronological order.

This, Aziraphale decided, was unforgivable. How dare they do this to him in his time of grief?! He snuck up to the figure and pointed his blade at them before shouting:

"Who do you think you are?!"

The turned around, held up their hands and whimpered at the sight of the sword so close to their face.

"Aziraphale, for fuck's sake, put that thing away!"

The blade dropped to the floor. Flames licking at the old, hardwood panels, but never scorching. Never burning.

The angel took one more step towards the intruder, nearly closing the gap between them. Hands reached for the familiar face in front of him. His eyes started to water as he stared into the other's eyes, now a bright blue to rival his own. He couldn't believe what he was seeing, but when the other spoke up, he knew he'd better believe.

"It's been a while, hasn't it?" Crowley asked. A dull 'oof' was forced from him as a pair of plump arms wrapped tightly around his waist.

"Don't you ever leave me like that again!" Aziraphale cried into his chest. "Do you have any idea how worried I was about you?!" He said as he pulled back and made a point of it to glare up at the recent reinstated angel.

Crowley glanced away and mumbled. "I have a vague idea..."

"How are you here?" Aziraphale asked as he started to calm down. Tears still flowed from his eyes, but the other bent over to thumb them away.

"It's funny you should ask that." Crowley smiled, all straight white teeth without a single fang in sight. "Apparently your prayers for my sake overloaded all of Above's communications."

"Oh..." Aziraphale mumbled. "That would explain why I haven't heard from them… What happened next?"

"Well," Crowley started, "with all of Heaven's communications on its ass, the Metatron went down into Hell to enlist the help of the one and only you-expert. Me."

* * *

"So, what you're saying is… Aziraphale's prayers for me are blocking everything? Going in _and_ out?"

"That is what we're saying. This cannot go on any longer." The Metatron said monotonously.

"So, what you want to know from me is...?"

"How do we make him stop? How do you stop these little… temper tantrums?" They asked.

'Temper tantrum' felt like the wrong wording to Crowley, but he knew he had to think quickly. This was his one ticket out of Hell permanently. A satisfied smile spread across his face as the right words formulated in his head.

"I've found that the most effective way to get him to stop is to simply give him what he wants. I can't put it any simpler than that." The man said and shrugged casually.

"So you can die again in 80 years and we start this all over again?" The Metatron asked, unamused, raising a single eyebrow. "We shall pass on that."

Crowley winced internally. He was on thin ice, but all wasn't lost yet.

"What if I promise to be really good?" He asked, swaying back and forth on his feet and batting his eyelashes.

"You cannot possibly be suggesting..."

"Oh, but I am. And besides, isn't that a small price to pay for Aziraphale's silence?" The words felt dirty in his mouth, but it was now or never. Back to Aziraphale or back to Hell.

"Alright, fine." The Metatron huffed, throwing up their arms in exasperation. "Consider it done, just pass on this one message."

* * *

"So… they made you an angel and sent you back just to buy my silence?" Aziraphale asked. His eyes narrowed in slight disgust.

This time, it was Crowley who pulled Aziraphale into a hug. "I know, I know. I felt so gross using you as leverage, but I just really wanted to come back to you..."

The smaller angel hushed the other and gently stroked his hair as he returned the embrace. "You're forgiven, Crowley. I missed you..." Aziraphale said. "And I love you. I don't know why it never occurred to me to tell you while you were alive, but..."

Crowley's hushed "I love you too" had barely been spoken when Aziraphale lunged forward to kiss him. Crowley happily complied and kissed back until Aziraphale pulled away.

"What did the Metatron want you to tell me that they couldn't come down to tell me themselves, anyway?"

"'Shut the Hell up', angel." The angel smirked as he kissed his love again.


End file.
